Deadly Kisses
by valde violet
Summary: "My name is Massie Block. I am seventeen years old. And I think I might be falling in love with the boy I'm supposed to kill."
1. Prologue

**Deadly Kisses**

**prologue**

.

.

.

I wake up in a room with white walls.

I am trapped: tied down onto a chair, a piece of cloth gagging my mouth, half-conscious. Slowly, as my vision comes into focus, I see a desk in front of me, a row of adults dressed in white lab coats. There's a lady with red hair. A man with glasses. And another man sitting in the middle, his hands clasped on the desk, his dark gaze fixed directly on me.

He's the one to speak first. "You're awake."

Unable to move or speak, I blink in response.

"You may take off your gag to speak."

When I don't move, he prompts me. "Go ahead."

Warily, I attempt to loosen my arms from their hold of the ropes that tie me to the chair. Immediately, the ropes loosen and fall off. I reach up and gingerly take the gag out of my mouth. I notice that as soon as I started moving, both the red-haired lady and the man with the glasses began to furiously take notes. I am too tired to try to see what they are writing.

"There we go." The man nods. "Now, what is your name?"

My mouth is dry. "M-Massie."

"Do you have a last name?"

"Massie Block."

He smiles. "Massie Block, tell me, do you know where you are?"

Do I know where I am? I'm in a room with white walls. I try to dig in my mind, conjure any previous memory that might associate a name to this strange location. I come up with nothing.

"No."

The red-haired lady and the man with glasses abruptly stop writing, look up at me. The man with the dark eyes smiles.

"Welcome home."

.

.

.

* * *

hi, i'm violet. it's lovely to meet you.

leave a review?


	2. Chapter 1: The New Cases

**Chapter 1: The New Clients**

.

.

.

The worst thing about killing a man is looking into his eyes.

I've got him tied up, gagged, held against the wall and a gun five inches from his face. And he still won't close his eyes. He just _looks _at me, unable to move or speak, every plea for his life so clearly etched into his gaze.

It almost makes me want to laugh, the number of times I've brought some of the most powerful and wealthy men in the world to their knees. Begging me to forgive them for their lies, redeem them of their sins. As if I'm their own personal saviour in the form of the devil incarnate.

The man is desperate now, making frantic and muffled noises against the chlorine-soaked gag in his mouth, tears spilling from his eyes. He is a ghost of the person he used to be.

What these victims refuse to understand is that I am not their killer. I'm only the messenger. And whatever they have done, whatever crimes they've committed, have been bad enough for them to deserve to die. With that thought in mind, I slide one finger along the length of the gun until it curls around the cold metal trigger.

"I'm sorry," I say to the man.

The bullet is a direct hit, and with such close proximity his death is instantaneous. I release my vice-like grip on the weapon and let my arm fall to my side. Then I carefully step around the pool of blood in my heels and exit the house, leaving no traces of my presence behind. If it weren't for the dead man on the floor, it would almost be as if I was never there in the first place.

/

_"We apologize for the inconvenience. Flight 425 to New York City is delayed for another hour due to technical difficulties." _

The sound of the crackled voice coming through the intercom sets my nerves on end. I've been stuck at the San Francisco airport for three hours now, hearing the same delayed flight message repeatedly. After a twelve-hour plane ride from Hong Kong and three consecutive days of no sleep, my patience is tiring out. I get up from my seat in the waiting area and walk over to the attendant at the front desk.

"Hi," I say, forcing a smile. "I was wondering if it's possible for me to get on another flight to New York? One that leaves as soon as possible?"

The attendant doesn't even look up, just continues rifling through her magazine. "I'm sorry, miss, the only flight we have is delayed another hour."

"Yes, I heard," I say through gritted teeth, "but I have an _incredibly _important meeting that I can't be late for. Is there any available pilot for any available plane? I'm not picky."

She looks up, finally, and gives me a disdainful once-over. I can see in her eyes that she doesn't think much of me, that she's already been irritated too many times today by unsettled passengers.

"Listen," she say snidely, "there are things that I don't have the power to change. It's not as if I can order an empty plane with your own personal pilot to fly you to New York."

"That would be wonderful, actually," I say, my fake smile still in place. "Make that happen and I'll be more than happy to pay for all the passenger seats that aren't used."

She doesn't even bother to conceal her scoff. "Yeah, right. What are you, like eighteen years old?"

"Seventeen," I reply promptly, _and I could crush you within the blink of an eye. _I reach into my bag and pull out a briefcase, sliding it across the table towards the attendant. She looks at it warily, but when she opens it and sees the countless rolls of neatly tied paper bills, her eyes widen in shock.

I keep my voice honey sweet. "Is one million enough?"

It takes her a moment to regain her composure. "Y-Yes, that should be, uh, fine," she stutters. "Uh – I'll arrange the flight immediately."

This time, my smile is genuine. "Perfect."

/

Two hours later, looking through the cloudy airplane window, I spot the signature skyscraper buildings of New York City. Despite the fact that it's one of the busiest cities in the world, I always feel a complete sense of relaxation every time I'm in the city. I've lived here my entire life, although lately my stays in it are farther and farther apart due to work. I guess that the city that never sleeps will always be the closest thing I have to a home.

I exit the plane with a quick thanks to the pilot, who just gives me a terrified nod, and then head immediately to the line of taxicabs waiting for passengers. I'm about to get into the one closest to me when I hear a loud _beep! _I turn around, unsettled by the sound, and my eyes widen in surprise when I see the familiar sight of a sleek, black limo, and the driver sitting in the front seat.

A head of dark hair pops out of the back window.

"Hey, bitch!" my best friend calls out. "Long time no see!"

Meet Alicia Rivera: 5'4", impossibly curvy, the most gorgeous girl I've ever seen, and the daughter of the founder of Rivera Industries. Alicia is the kind of beautiful that hits you right in the face at first sight, so that all your own flaws and imperfections are suddenly accentuated tenfold. Enter her wealth and social status into the equation, and Alicia is practically the embodiment of modern-day perfect. If she wasn't my best friend, I would probably hate her.

Before I've even strapped my seatbelt on, Alicia tackles me into a bone-wrenching hug.

"I've missed you so much, Massie," she pouts, pulling away. "I've literally spent the past month completely alone, no one to talk to or hang out with. It's been so depressing."

"Don't forget your two-week trip to Paris, Miss Rivera," a voice pipes up from the front.

Alicia narrows her eyes at the driver but I laugh and say, "Thanks for the info, Isaac."

"It was just a little vacation," Alicia hastens to explain. "And I was miserable the whole time there, too, because they closed my favourite boutique – Daddy refuses to buy it because he thinks that it'll expose the company. As if!"

Mr. Rivera, Alicia's father, the CEO of Rivera Industries, was one of the most influential and powerful businessmen in the world. I've been employed under him since I was ten years old, which is how my friendship with Alicia started.

"Well, there's nothing wrong with a little caution," I reply dryly. "Especially when you're dealing with a secret _and _illegal multi-billion dollar company."

Rivera Industries' is not a typical business. We have a simple but much defined process of generating money. Step one is to get a client, and with the quickly-spreading grapevine that is so prevalent in high society, this is an easy feat to attain. The second step: selection. Out of the clients that bring their cases to us, we trim off the majority and only agree to the few that meet Mr. Rivera's strict requirements. Then, the last and final step is completed by one of Mr. Rivera's employed agents. Including myself, if I'm assigned to the case. You see, at all other successful companies, they make their profit through investment of stocks or technological innovation.

At Rivera Industries, we kill.

"Oh! I almost forgot – I bought you something in Paris," Alicia says, eagerly pressing a large white box into my arms. "It's totally perfect for you to wear to your client meeting today."

Isaac pipes up from the front. "Speaking of the client meeting, Miss Rivera, I've been informed by your father that I'll be fired if I don't get Miss Block to the office in five minutes. So I suggest, for the sake of my job, that we make haste."

"Affirmative, Isaac," Alicia sing-songs, then turns to me. "You heard the man, Mass. Open the box!"

I obey and take the lid off the white box. Inside is a neatly folded emerald green silk dress and a pair of incredibly high black heels. Both items practically exude luxury.

Alicia squeals. "Don't you just _love _them? They're from Paris."

"Um, yes?" I reply vaguely, then see the unsatisfied expression on Alicia's face. "I mean, _yes, _I love them. Thanks so much, Leesh –" I hesitate. "But I don't think I can wear this to a client meeting. It's a bit too… much."

Alicia waves her hand in the air, dismissing my comment. "Puh-lease, Mass. I love you, but at the moment you look rather homeless – and I don't blame you, public airplanes must be a fright – but Daddy has been stressing out all month because of how important this client is. So take my advice: wear the dress."

"Three minutes," Isaac warns from the front.

Alicia gives me a pointed look, and after taking in the crumpled appearance of my shirt and jeans, I concede. "Fine. But it's your fault if I fall flat on my face in front of this big-shot client."

"And I have no problem with that," Alicia grins. "As long as you look hot doing it."

Once Isaac puts up the barrier and darkens all the windows, I strip off my clothes and put on the dress and heels in record time. Alicia gives me a quick once-over, and after combing through my hair and spraying me with a sickly sweet floral perfume, she claps her hands together.

"You look ah-mazing, Mass. My best work yet!"

"We're here, Miss Block," Isaac announces as pull up at the front of the gigantic glass building. The gilded plaque with the words _Rivera Industries _engraved seems to glint in the sunlight. "A minute and fifteen seconds to spare."

Alicia hurries out and starts dragging me towards the building. "Thanks Isaac!"

When we get inside, she pushes me to the elevators. All the employees who we pass give us nods out of respect. I suppose we're quite a sight: the boss's daughter and the youngest assassin in the world, arm in arm. But it's been like this for so long that I can't even imagine anything else.

Alicia presses the button for the top floor of the building, which takes me by surprise. Rivera Industries is divided into extremely established sections: the bottom floors are for administration, which is where secretaries work and where potential clients can go through the introductory process. The middle floors are for the workers – that is, the computer experts and professional trainers that are hired to help with cases. Then there are the top few floors, which are reserved solely for the offices of the "agents." This includes myself and the dozen others who share the same occupation as me. Lastly, there's the highest floor, which is completely owned by Mr. Rivera. The only person who's ever allowed to step inside is Alicia, and only if her father gives her permission. I've never heard of a client meeting held there.

"We're going to your dad's floor?" I ask.

She shrugs. "That's where he told me to bring you. I told you – this meeting is _muy importante,_ although I'm not sure why."

"What's the client's name again?"

Alicia doesn't officially do anything at the company (probably because she refuses to be associated with anything that has the word _work _in it), but she's always been a pseudo assistant for me in my cases because of our close friendship. The client decisions are solely made by Mr. Rivera, but as his daughter she gets special input, and she'll often tell me the client information before I get assigned.

"Mr. Harrington," she says. "His company is Harrington Co., probably the most notable holding company in America at the moment. I couldn't find any information on the victim but I'm guessing that it's probably an enemy company owner."

"I've heard of him," I muse, briefly recalling numerous headlines with the name _Harrington_ in them. "But I wonder what makes him so important."

The elevator bell rings and the doors slide open, revealing the well-furnished and vast floor that is Mr. Rivera's office.

"C'mon," Alicia says, indicating for me to follow her. She leads me to a room all the way at the end of the floor, and then quickly whispers, "They're already in there. I don't know much about the case, Massie, but I've never seen Daddy like this. It's totally weird. Just – just be composed, okay?"

"Aren't I always?" I reply with a smile. "Thanks, Leesh, but I can handle this."

And I know that I can. After all, this is what I've worked towards for my whole life. When I first entered Rivera Industries at age seven, I was a timid orphaned girl with no perception of anything in the world. It's taken years of vigorous training in order to get to where I am today.

"I know you can," Alicia says, squeezing my arm. "You're Massie Block."

After a quick wish of good luck, she heads down the hall and disappears behind the closed elevator doors. For a brief moment I stand by myself outside of the large doors, preparing myself to get into a completely professional mindset. I lift my hand, and just as I'm about to knock, the door flies open.

Standing before me is a man with gleaming dark eyes. He smiles broadly when he sees me.

"You must be Miss Block," he declares. "We've been waiting."

/

The meeting goes by more quickly than I anticipated. Normally, client meetings are hours of discussion and details about the case, including timelines and specific instructions from the client. But in this meeting I can sense right away that my attention is barely required. I sit quietly to the side while Mr. Harrington and Mr. Rivera talk in rather hushed and serious tones.

I spend my time assessing my new client. He looks to be in his mid-forties, around the same age as Mr. Rivera, with a stocky build and graying hair. His features are refined, and his gaze, while dark and scrutinizing, is very guarded. It is impossible for me to discern what he is thinking.

What surprises me most is the fact that Mr. Rivera and Mr. Harrington refer to each other on a first-name basis, seemingly without prior introduction. I hadn't even known Mr. Rivera's first name before, despite the fact that I've practically grown up under his care my entire life. It's strange to hear him being called _Alberto_ rather than _sir_.

The only complete conclusion I come up with is that Mr. Rivera and Mr. Harrington knew each other previously. This in itself is completely mind-boggling, especially considering that has always been the number one rule at Rivera Industries. Keep yourself removed from your work; don't blur the lines between personal and professional.

Since I haven't been participating in their conversation, I start to lose track and instead only catch snippets.

"It'll be legal in two months –"

"I'm sure that there are other suitable choices –"

"This is my final decision."

After half an hour of this heated but quiet discussion, both men stand up. My mind has wandered already, and I'm currently trying to ignore the pangs of hunger in my stomach (I haven't eaten since the plane ride) when I notice that they've both stopped talking. I quickly stand up as well.

Mr. Rivera places a hand on my shoulder. "Massie, it's been decided that Mr. Harrington will be your future client. You will meet with him tomorrow to discuss further details."

Mr. Harrington's eyes pierce mine. "Forgive me if I do not partake much throughout the length of this case, Miss Block. I am a busy man, which is why I've asked Mr. Rivera to choose the best and most reliable agent he had. I will give you the instructions, but much of the case will have to be completed through your own means."

"It'll be a pleasure," I reply, reaching a hand out.

He takes my hand, his gaze studying my face. I'm surprised by how strong his grip is although I manage to keep my composure. When he lets go, it's a relief.

Mr. Rivera adds, "Do not be disheartened by her appearance, Garrett. Massie is more than capable of completing the task you've set before us."

"On the contrary, Albert," Mr. Harrington says smoothly, smiling for only the second time since I've met him. "I am quite pleased with her appearance. After all, she is the spitting image of her mother."

_The spitting image of her mother_.

I open my mouth, about to say something, but Mr. Rivera shoots me a look of such severity that I close my mouth again immediately. Despite the questions burning in my throat, I stay quiet.

After a quick, formal goodbye, and one final nod towards me, Mr. Harrington leaves the room. The door closes with a sort of heavy finality.

"Before you speak," M. Rivera says, after a pause, "I'll say this: yes, I knew Mr. Harrington prior to the case, and yes, he knew your mother. I believe they were childhood acquaintances."

"How did –

"No questions right now, Miss Block. They will all require too long of an explanation, and we have another meeting very soon. I know it's unheard of, but you have two clients to meet today. This one, you will be happy to hear, requires your participating much more than the previous."

My mind is spinning, trying to piece together the fragments of information I've been abruptly presented with. My mother? _Two _clients? These are all factors that I've never had to even consider before.

Just then, the intercom sparks to life and a voice comes through: _"Mr. Rivera, your next client is here."_

"Wonderful," Mr. Rivera calls. "Kindly send Mr. Harrington up."

"Mr. Harrington?" I manage to ask with a furrow of my brow, feeling even more perplexed than before. "I thought we just had our meeting with him."

"That was Garrett Harrington, the top business magnate in the world at the moment." Mr Rivera smiles at me, but there is something so unnervingly sad about his expression that I feel a shiver go through my body.

"Our next client, whom you will also refer to as Mr. Harrington, is his son."

.

.

.

* * *

so happy with all the reviews, you guys! keep it up? :)


End file.
